Love Always

by Harriet Evans

  We walk to Liverpool Street. Jay is texting his buddies, arranging some complicated plan for this evening involving a club somewhere in Hackney, with drinks at some speakeasy beforehand. When we get to King’s Cross, Jay shakes his phone, waiting to get reception as we walk through the cavernous station to change lines. The big, echoing corridors are full of people racing for trains, hurrying onwards, going back home. The strip lighting is harsh; I blink to try and see straight, thoughts crowding my head.

  ‘Man, what’s up with Samir and Joey tonight?’ he says in exasperation, staring at his phone. ‘No one’s around, this is shit.’

  ‘Hey, Jay,’ I say suddenly. ‘I’m going to get off here, OK?’

  ‘What?’ he says. ‘I’m going to go and see Guy.’

  ‘Who? Oh, the Bowler Hat’s Guy. Why?’

  ‘Just – want to talk to him,’ I say. ‘I think he might help with some stuff.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘He – it’s just stuff about Granny’s foundation,’ I amend lamely. ‘We’re on the committee. Thought I’d do it while I’m in the area.’

  ‘He still hasn’t called you back? Haven’t you been trying him all week?’

  I nod. ‘I won’t be long. See you laters.’

  Jay already has his phone out, texting. ‘Sure. Laters, yeah?’ I love Jay when he’s gearing up to be an East London wide boy with his brothers out on a night on the town. I keep expecting him to click his fingers together and shout, ‘Wicked, innit!’ It’s funny how he’s so organised, sorted even, but still such a little boy in so many ways, and I find it endearing, whereas with Oli I came to find it disturbing. Perhaps it’s because he really doesn’t know he’s doing it. Whereas I felt Oli had read too many lads’ mags articles about how to behave like a child and get away with it.

  I feel a curious lightening of my mood as I get off the bus on Upper Street a few minutes later. It’s a nice late afternoon, the clocks have gone back and people are still out shopping. I head down Cross Street, walking with purpose.

  When I get to Guy Leighton Antiques I stop. The blinds are down and there’s a ‘CLOSED’ sign hanging on the door. I peer through the glass; the shop is in darkness, but there’s a light shining in the back room. I rap firmly on the door, rattling it slightly so the old bell jangles faintly.

  After a few seconds, Guy appears, blinking. I watch him as he shuffles casually towards the door, trying to picture the young, charming, kind man Cecily fell in love with, the one so vividly alive in the diary. He’s fiddling with his glasses, on the chain round his neck. He doesn’t look up as he unbolts the door, and then he opens it.

  ‘I’m afraid we’re closed today –’ he begins. ‘Oh.’

  He stares at me. His face is paler than ever. ‘Sorry to drop by unannounced,’ I begin. ‘It’s just I’ve been trying to get hold of you—’

  His hands are still on the half-shut door. He opens it a little wider. ‘Natasha,’ he says. His eyes do not leave my face and I remember him saying I looked like Cecily. I feel uncomfortable.

  ‘I wondered if we could talk,’ I say.

  Guy is clenching the door and his knuckles are white. ‘Yes – yes . . .’ He looks flustered. Um – so what do you want?’

  The Guy I know (admittedly, not well) is normally calm, wryly amused, in control. This man is like a stranger to me.

  ‘I don’t want to disturb you,’ I say, thinking perhaps he was in the middle of something, or he’s just woken up and is confused after a nap. ‘It’s just – I read Cecily’s diary, you said to call you when I had.’ I try to keep the desperation out of my voice. How could he have forgotten? ‘I’ve been trying to call you – and Mum – she’s gone away.’

  ‘I know. She came to see me before she went.’

  ‘She came to see you?’ I try to ignore the fact that my mother seems to be quite happy to contact Guy all the time over me. Here, take the diary. Here, I’m going away. I shift on my feet. ‘I didn’t know what was in it—’

  ‘I know,’ Guy says. ‘I know. It’s terrible.’ But he doesn’t move. His jaw is tight; his eyes are cold.

  I swallow, because I think I am about to cry again, and I don’t know why. Why’s he being so . . . strange? ‘Can – can I come in? The thing is . . . I can’t really talk to anyone else about it, you see—’

  Then Guy holds up his hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘No, I can’t. I can’t do this.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘This.’ He points at me. ‘It’s – I’m so sorry. It’s just too much. I should have realised. This family . . . It’s – I’m not ready. I’m sorry. Go away, Natasha. I’m sorry.’

  And as I am standing in the doorway staring at him in astonishment, he gently closes the door in my face.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  On this occasion, I leave time for the train. I am there so early, in fact, that I can walk the length of the magnificent interior of Paddington station, admiring the soaring Victorian poles of steel, the war memorial, the endless hustle and bustle on this beautiful spring morning. A brisk April shower has cleared and it is warm, sunshine flooding the station with yellow morning light. I even have time to get a bacon roll from the Cornish Pasty Company, which I used to go to religiously when I was younger, convinced that a pasty from there would bring me closer to Summercove. I eat it, hovering nervously in front of the ticket barrier, not wanting to spoil my smart new dress, and too scared to get on the train. Carriage G, seat 18.

  Louisa sent the tickets to me last Friday with a note.

  Have taken the liberty of booking our tickets there and back; no payment is necessary as this comes out of the foundation’s budget. Please find yours enclosed. Look forward to what I am sure will be a memorable and moving day. Love from Louisa x

  She sent it to Jay’s address too, she knew somehow, with her organised ways, that I’d moved there. That’s Louisa all over: always serving others, efficient, brisk, but still affectionate. I think back to the Louisa in the diary, the leggy blonde knockout still in thrall to her good-looking boyfriend. I sigh and ball my paper bag into my fist. Ten minutes till the train goes, and no sign of anyone. Perhaps they’re all already there, waiting for me. I square my shoulders and open the carriage door.

  I’m the first. The carriage is warm like the station and I’m hot in my coat, I can feel myself perspiring. I’m tired still from the previous night, and I just want to close my eyes and sleep. I put my overnight bag on the rack above and sit down in my seat at the table, looking around me. Both tables are all booked, the little tickets sticking out of the seats proclaiming the legend ‘London Paddington to Penzance’.

  It is coming up for two months since I was last on this train, going down to Granny’s funeral. So much has changed since then that it feels like a lifetime ago, someone else’s life, even. I take a sip of my weak, grey-coloured coffee.

  The automatic doors open with a whoosh and my head snaps up, almost of its own accord. The fact that I don’t know who to expect gives the proceedings an unreal, almost filmic air of excitement. And there, bustling down the corridor, is Louisa. I stand up, squint at her, the way I did when I first saw Guy again, trying to imagine her that summer.

  ‘Hello, Natasha dear,’ she says. She pats my cheek and then kisses it. I had forgotten how nice she smells. ‘Lovely to see you.’ She turns. ‘Frank, darling? Oh, where’s he gone? Frank? I wanted him to – there he is!’ she finishes, with relief.

  And the doors open again to reveal the Bowler Hat, smart in a dark grey suit. He picks his way towards the table cautiously, as if afraid his height will cause him to knock out a light fitting. ‘Hello, Natasha,’ he says warmly. He puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘Good to see you.’ He kisses me too.

  My blood turns cold at his touch. It’s over two weeks since I first read the rest of Cecily’s diary, and I haven’t been able to face rereading it. I just can’t. But words and phrases are burnt into in my mind. Rather pleased with himself, like a polit ician. I look down to see
its dull red colour in my bag, bound loosely with an elastic band, bulging from the extra pages folded up inside. I want to take it out and show it to him, shatter his smug, self-satisfied veneer, make him crawl on his knees to my mother, to Arvind, to his brother, to me and all my family, for forgiveness. Especially to his wife.

  But of course she doesn’t know, he has never told her the truth, no one has. It’s so strange, looking at him, noticing for the first time the liver spots freckling his pale, smooth cheekbones, the papery thin skin puckering around his eyes. I wonder what Cecily would say, if she could see him now. I stare at him.

  Louisa sits down at the other table. ‘Frank, we’re here,’ she says, patting his seat.

  ‘Oh, right,’ he says dully. I notice it now, it’s as if she’s his mother and he’s a child. I don’t think they realise they’re like this.

  ‘I got some croissants in Marks yesterday in case we’re hungry, Natasha, do you want one?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ She stares at me. ‘It’s a long journey. You look rather tired.’

  ‘I am tired,’ I say. ‘I had a long night yesterday.’

  ‘Single girl, out on the tiles!’ she says, with an attempt at jollity, but she’s trying too hard and her voice sounds a bit hysterical, as though she’s sorry for me. ‘Good for you! Was it that?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I say. I can’t bear to go into it with Louisa. The truth is I just want to be off, for this day to be under way, so that last night can begin to be a dim and distant memory. Last night, and today. Once today’s over, then the future can begin.

  ‘Oh, Natasha. You’re wearing that lovely ring.’ Louisa smiles, her eyes glistening. ‘It was Franty’s, you know. She gave it to Cecily, the day she . . . the very day she died. Poor Aunt Frances.’

  I glance at the Bowler Hat but he doesn’t betray any flicker of emotion. Does he feel guilt at all? Or is he just used to this, every day? It occurs to me that perhaps he must be.

  Louisa says, ‘It is lovely. How sweet of you to wear it. Where did you get it from?’ She asks this without rancour.

  ‘Arvind gave it to me,’ I say. ‘So I felt I ought to wear it today.’

  ‘Well,’ she says, looking at the Bowler Hat and then at the croissants. ‘It’s lovely that you are.’

  I want to agree.

  I went back to the studio last night, to get it. I wish I hadn’t, in a way. I wouldn’t be feeling like this today if I had.

  I’d left, about six-thirty, to go and meet Cathy and Jay for a drink, and halfway down towards the Whitechapel Road I’d remembered and turned back, with an oath. Work is really busy this week which is great, but I wasn’t anxious to spend any more time in the studio where I’d been since eight that morning.

  I’ve been working that out, these last few weeks. And ‘Cecily’s Necklace’, as I’ve called it, the charm necklace modelled on the ring and those charms I designed, has been reordered twice now, by Emilia’s Sister and by PipnReb, and another shop, this time on Cheshire Street, has asked if they can stock me – they called me, not the other way round, which is amazing. Most amazing of all, someone claiming to be from Liberty came to the stall and bought a whole load of stuff on Sunday. It was only my first week there – I’m still in shock. It’s the necklace with Cecily’s ring, they all want it. It’s like a sort of good-luck talisman.

  So I was a little reluctant, therefore, to revisit the studio where I and Maya, the scary design intern I’ve hired, had been slaving away all day putting the necklaces together, but I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t. Today is important, and I wanted to wear Cecily’s ring for it.

  Back at the studio, the writers’ collective was having one of their readings in the basement, which normally meant a piss-up starting at about five; I’d managed to avoid it, but it was clearly still going on, and I could hear people chatting, laughing raucously, as I walked past. I didn’t turn the light on when I got to my studio; it was still just light outside, and I dashed in to pluck the ring off the counter where I’d left it. As I was locking up again, I heard a noise down the corridor and looked down to see Ben coming out of his studio with Jamie, the Sophie-Dahl-alike receptionist. They can’t have realised I was there.

  She leaned against the railing and he came forward and kissed her, his hands on her face, her long, beautiful corn-coloured hair glimmering slightly in the evening light. Two plastic cups, their clear sides stained with cheap red wine, were stacked at their feet.

  I always knew Ben had a crush on her, even though he denied it. He was fascinated by Jamie’s love life, we were always discussing it – even that night in the pub right before we kissed. Now I know why, I said to myself.

  Luckily I didn’t have to pass them to get down the stairs, they’re at my end of the corridor. I just pretended not to have seen them and walked off. I didn’t want to embarrass Ben. I didn’t want to be embarrassed, is more likely the truth. But I was embarrassed. I burnt hot at the thought of it, as I scurried away; why?

  The last time Oli and I had sex, that awful, deadening Friday morning, we didn’t kiss. I let him fuck me, and we didn’t kiss once. So Ben is the last person I kissed, I guess, and that thought makes me sad for all sorts of reasons, most of all shame that I wanted him to mix himself up with me and my messy life. I think about him and Jamie together, and I nod. Yes, it makes sense. Of course it does. And I feel glad that, every time I’ve thought about him since, about how good that kiss was, about his face, his eyes, his friendship towards me, how great it felt to be in his arms . . . I feel glad that I pushed it away, never let myself give in to it. It just means it’s easier now.

  So as I hurried back down Brick Lane towards the pub, I tried not to feel sad, even though I couldn’t help it. But, as I reasoned to myself, one hand on Cecily’s necklace, it’s only natural. I think I persuaded myself into love with Oli. We both did. I should be careful about doing the same again. Next time, it’ll be for ever. I’ve got to get next time right. Cecily didn’t have a next time. I do.

  My mind is drifting towards the latter stage of the evening, when I am recalled to the present, to the railway carriage, to the Bowler Hat, picking daintily over the croissant his wife has given him, long fingers taking up pastry flakes and carefully eating them. I look away, suddenly nauseated.

  ‘The train leaves in five minutes,’ Louisa says, looking out of the window anxiously. ‘Where is your mother, Natasha? She can’t miss this train, it’ll be a disaster. She’s making the speech!’

  She looks at me slightly accusingly, but I remain calm. Before all this, I would have felt guilt on Mum’s behalf. Now I don’t. If I was her I wouldn’t want to turn up at all, frankly. I don’t even know if she’s back – if she’s ever coming back. I can see why she likes being away, now.

  Once again, my head shoots up as the doors open again. But it’s no one I know, a vast mum dragging two small children with her. She plonks them into the seat behind us, puffing at the exertion, her face stained red. I look at the clock. 7:26. My mind drifts again.

  * * *

  ‘What time is it?’

  Cathy had asked me this question yesterday evening. ‘Nearly eight,’ I’d replied.

  ‘Exactly. So you can’t just run off. It’s been an hour! I thought we’d meet Jay and check out Needoo. You know, the new Tayyabs. I’ve not been before.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I’d said, swinging my bag over my shoulder and standing up. ‘I’ve got to get out of here . . . Sorry, Cathy.’

  Dead Dog Tom’s was loud, crowded, hot, full of girls much younger than me. It’s new and I’d been meaning to go for a while. But the moment I arrived, I knew it was a mistake. Not my kind of place at all. Asymmetric haircuts and big black glasses are one thing, but this was like an episode of The Hills, everyone tanned with perfect teeth, endless legs and beautiful hair – and that was just the guys. Cathy had just battled back from the bar with our second drink when I’d looked up and seen it.


  ‘Why?’ Cathy’s face was a picture of childish annoyance, like a little girl who’s been told she can’t go to the zoo. She pouted. ‘I want to tell you about our weekend away! I think he’s taking me to Southwold, we’re staying next to Benjamin Britten’s house, can you believe it?’

  I touched her shoulder. ‘Cathy – it’s Oli,’ I said. ‘Look – over there. He’s – I’m sorry. I just, I just want to get out of here.’

  Open-mouthed, Cathy turned. She looked over to where I was staring.

  There, his elbows on the bar, hands waggling intently as he talked fast and low, was Oli. He was saying something to a girl with her back to us. She had blonde hair, and was wearing a high-waisted tulip skirt, a puff-sleeved little shirt and tights with a black seam, and she was nodding at him.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Cathy said. ‘It’s Oli! Bastard.’

  As if by some kind of magic alchemy the music stopped and the thunderous chatter abated for a few seconds, the way there is suddenly a strange lull in a noisy bar. Cathy’s voice echoed around our corner, so loudly that Oli looked up and saw us.

  Pushing himself off the bar, Oli stood up straight. He raised his hand as if in greeting and then, obviously thinking better of it, walked towards us, turning the handwave into a ruffle through his thick dark hair, which stuck up on end even more as a result.

  ‘Cathy,’ he said, kissing her cheek. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi,’ Cathy replied, leaning up on tiptoe to kiss him. ‘Look, I’ll—’

  ‘I was just going,’ I said to him. ‘Honestly.’

  ‘I’ll see you outside,’ said Cathy, vanishing discreetly towards the Ladies.

  We stood on the pavement on Whitechapel Road. It was still light.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry I haven’t called,’ Oli said. He looked much younger. Dressed much younger, in a cardigan, jeans, plimsolls. I held up my hand.

  ‘No, it’s fine. I haven’t either. You got my email, about you maybe moving back into the flat, though?’